


Needles

by Su_Whisterfield



Category: X-Men (Comicverse)
Genre: Domestic Fluff, Gen, Mild Hurt/Comfort
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-18
Updated: 2020-11-18
Packaged: 2021-03-10 06:46:59
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 4,926
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27609188
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Su_Whisterfield/pseuds/Su_Whisterfield
Summary: Another of my ‘Early Days at the Mansion’ stories. Moira has arrived and has three new test subjects. No one knows Wolverine’s real name yet, Kurt still peppers his speech with lots of German and everything is new and different for our international contingent.
Relationships: Jean Grey & Kurt Wagner, Logan (X-Men) & Kurt Wagner
Comments: 10
Kudos: 29





	1. Charles - Drawing the threads

Watching him work out, I bless the day Kurt joined us.  
The speed, the control, the grace. Men aren’t taught to be graceful, unless it’s for a specific reason, such as a dancer. Everyone stops to watch, not just me, today it’s Sean and Wolverine, who’s smoking inside, again.  
The rig is high; even if the Danger Room is set up as a dojo or gym, Kurt can fly above, out of the way. And he can do this for hours.  
He relishes the freedom, the opportunity to move, to hone his skills, for as long as he wishes, secure in the knowledge that there is a hot shower and food at the end of it.

Kurt is very fond of the circus, very loyal to the good memories he has, the friends and family. But it wasn’t always easy.  
I am determined to give him a better life, more options, because, before he joined us, his life choices were so limited, and becoming more so. It’s one thing to be a cute, chubby child with his unusual features but a gawky adolescent or full grown adult is an entirely different matter. There was more money to be made putting him in a freak show than having him be a flyer and acrobat, no matter how skilled. So that’s where he was headed, the erosion of his liberties and rights had already started, there’s no recourse in law for a person such as him. No birth certificate, no passport or paperwork. No bank account. No money. No freedom, other than what the circus owner chose to give him. I’m not convinced he got paid, despite being a top attraction, I have deep suspicions about how he was being exploited, he was a chattel, with no more choice than the elephants or the tigers.  
One of the first things I gave him was a paper identity. Oh, it took some doing, some fudging of details, but I was determined, and somewhat devious. He now has a bank account and an allowance goes into it every month. It is his, to do with as he wishes. It is, if he wants it, independence, even from us. I faced several similar issues with Ororo too, but she has more options than Kurt, she can walk the streets unmolested for a start: not unnoticed, she is so striking, but freely, without being threatened or being in danger. Kurt has to stay in the shadows. Bu she also needed a paper identity.

I have plans to fast track the education of all my new intake of students, none of them have used a computer before, such a huge gulf to bridge. But they are all keen and willing to learn, which is half the battle. Both Kurt and Ororo are multilingual, though some of Kurt’s language skills go no further than ordering a beer, and his math ability is practically non existent, but he can read English and French as well as German. Such bright, curious minds, both of them, so eager, so inquisitive, so criminality undereducated. And Peter’s education might have been basic, but it was thorough and if I ever need a tractor servicing, I know where to go,


	2. Moira - A stitch in time

Files, no matter how comprehensive, really can’t tell you about the person.  
Charles and I had plans for years, for our second wave of X-Men, slightly older, from further afield than his original students.  
They are everything I could have hoped for and more. They are also going to be an ongoing project. I’m still working on the full mapping of the original team’s genomes, Jean in particular is a beautiful, complex puzzle which could occupy a whole lifetime of study.  
But my first task is to take care of the physical health of our new arrivals, particularly our international contingent. Sadly, I never got to meet John Proudstar.  
Sean Cassidy, codename, Banshee and the short grumpy Canadian, Wolverine, are both grown adults, Sean has any paperwork I want to see, he tells me with a delightful brogue and a wink, he’s a real charmer. Wolverine has no paperwork, no history but has a ferociously efficient ability to self heal, I’d absolutely love to explore it more but I don’t think he’ll let either Charles or I that close, mores the pity.

I start on my three charges with a thorough physical.  
Ororo, Storm, The Windrider. She has a fascinating powerset, almost off the scale. She is, she tells me with her beautiful, rich voice, twenty two, she was born in Haarlem, in New York and grew up in Africa. She has a fantastic memory, including childhood illnesses and inoculations, but doesn’t have the paperwork to back it up. So she graciously agrees for me to start again from scratch. Her manner is regal, but not haughty, I carefully work my way around to wanting to do an intimate examination and pap smear. She is one step ahead of me and in agreement that it‘s a good idea, she slips out of the thin cotton gown with the elegance of a supermodel stepping onto the catwalk. We talk about periods and sanitary products but Jean has already beaten me to it, bless her. Ororo is quietly boggled by disposable tampons and towels, such a wasteful method. Jean has also taken her out shopping for clothes, which she very much enjoyed. I hope this is the start of a beautiful friendship between them.

Piotr, our Russian powerhouse, has had all the correct inoculations, he tells me, formally, the USSR is very keen on such things, healthcare in his village was very well organised. Unfortunately for him, any paperwork is also in Mother Russia, but he is stoic about me giving him the injections anew. In his human form, he is a picture of a robust, healthy farm boy. He’s also rather overwhelmed, but doesn’t want to admit that, even to himself.

And then there’s Kurt. Oh, boy. Where do I start?  
Like are Mr Cassidy, he’s a charmer, with a soft voice and lovely accent. He’s also something of a showoff, or, more realistically, a showman, he’s spent his entire life in the circus and is completely happy to tell me all about it, about starting off tumbling with the clowns, then the acrobats then, finally, as a flier, on the trapeze, high above the audience. It sounds fabulous, fantastic, but his body tells me another story; superb muscles, honed by years of practice but there’s not a scrap of fat on him, he’s lean to the point of skinny. It makes his face look hard and sharp. There are a couple of old injuries too, under the fur, hard to spot, unless you know what to look for. 

He sits there in the short, thin gown, juggling cotton swabs and gives me that bright, toothy smile, always in motion, always fidgeting, playing with something. Curious and charming, he’s never had a physical examination before, I tell him what I’m doing with every test, he’s very sharp and he’s fascinated. He has seen a doctor, the circus overwintered in a town and the doctor put a plaster of paris bandage on his arm when he fell and broke his wrist, but I’m guessing it was a rare occurrence, the doctor, he says, was expensive.

He’s also tells me he’s twenty, he knows his birthdate but I’m not convinced, I think he’s adding a year or two, I think he wants, like Peter, to convince me that he’s older and surer than he really is. He’s five foot seven, I think he may have another couple of inches to grow and the correct diet, a high calorie, high protein diet will help. Heavens, what if Peter hasn’t finished growing yet either?  
He’s so mutated, another fascinating puzzle to unpick, but first things first, I want to ensure he‘s not carrying any internal or external parasites. I’ve checked my other two patients too, they all appear healthy but I’m not leaving anything to chance. I get the full benefit of that earnest golden gaze. Of course I can check but he _assures_ me he hasn’t got _fleas_. Oh. The way he says it, I know then that he has had in the past, bless him. I kick my maternal instincts into the curb, he needs a doctor, not a mother at the moment. But the enormity of how strange he is, what he must have gone through before he came to us, it makes my heart ache.  
I take blood and other samples, I’d like cerebrospinal fluid too, but that can wait for another day, I don’t want to overwhelm him.

Those eyes, watching with curiosity, they actually glow, I’m itching to start work on his samples.  
Do not get distracted, Moira.

His fur is in good condition, sleek and shiny and smooth and the most glorious shade of blue. I ask if his uniform ruffles it? _Ja_ but he’s used to keeping it in good order, he has brushes and combs and his circus costume was just as snug. I tell him to let me know if he needs new brushes, new anything. Everything is “Ja” everything is good. He has new clothes, Scott ordered them for him, from a catalog, he tells me he’s very grateful.  
“Doctor?”  
“Hm?” I carry on writing up the bloods labels, but something in his tone makes me look up. He’s hiding behind those floppy curls. Twenty my eye, he’s still a kid.  
“ _Herr_ Professor? He is a good man, _ja_?” He’s fidgeting with his tail.  
“He is, Kurt, he really is.” I keep my tone kind, something is bothering him. “What’s the matter, Kurt?”  
There’s a pause as he gathers his courage. “He is so generous, he has paid for so much for me over the last few weeks. Clothes, food, my room here, I’ve never lived anywhere like this.” He licks his lips, tongue very pink against the dark skin. He meets my eyes. “When do I have to pay him, Doctor MacTaggert? I...I don’t have much money.”  
How could we be so dense. Oh. I need to speak to Charles about this, I know he was planning on setting up trust funds for our newcomers, but I don’t know if he’s told them that?  
“Oh, Kurt.“  
Charles said that he left Germany, his family, the circus and everything he knew to come here to be with us without any planning, with a single suitcase, of course he hasn’t got any money. They left in rather a hurry, Charles also told me about the baying mob with the torches and pitchforks.  
“Sweetie, you don’t pay us, we pay you.”  
I think I might’ve blown his mind.


	3. Jean - Darning

I‘m driving into New York through the first flurries of winter snow on a secret mission. My co-conspirator can’t hide the wonder his face as the sky scrapers grow larger before us. I don’t think that he had any idea quite how big a city it really is.  
“Are you sure they will still be open, Jean? It’s gone six.”  
“Oh, don’t worry, Kurt, New York is the city which never sleeps, they’ll still be open.”

I love Scott dearly, really I do, but at times...  
So, it finally dawned on Charles, after a not too subtle prompt from Doctor MacTaggert, that our new students really only had the clothes they stood up in and their uniforms. I had already sorted Ororo out, Sean took Peter to a Large and Tall store (though shoes are still an issue, have you ever tried to get size nineteen trainers?) and Scott was to help Kurt.  
Which is how Kurt spent about a week walking about in neat button down shirts. And chinos. All things Scott would wear. And looking thoroughly, utterly miserable. But if you asked him, of course, everything was fine. The clothes were fine, he was fine, he was very grateful for Scott getting them for him.  
The clothes _were_ perfectly fine, perfectly ordinary. If you like, normal, ordinary clothes.  
They just weren’t Kurt.  
So nine times out of ten, he’d be wearing his uniform. Or even the black part of his old circus costume, which is looking distinctly threadbare.  
I wasn’t really sure what to do about it. It really wasn’t any of my business. Besides, I wasn’t entirely sure what sort of clothes _were_ Kurt‘s style. How do you dress a pirate wanabe? When I said that to Misty and Colleen over a glass of wine, Misty laughed and said she knew _exactly_ where pirate wannabes shopped In New York.

I walk past his room, the door is ajar and he‘s unloading a basket of clean laundry. No time like the present.  
“Hi.”  
He looks up, gives me that lovely, megawatt, smile. “Jean, how nice to see you!”  
“Let me help you with that.“ We soon have a conversation going as we fold the laundry and put it in the chest of drawers. He’s still finding the Mansion a bit overwhelming, he can’t believe he really lives in such luxury but he’s enjoying himself, he likes everyone, he loves the gym and The Danger Room.  
“These are beautiful!” There are hand knitted socks and gloves in the drawers, they are very fine, very complicated patterns.  
He smiles, slightly sadly and puts his finger through a hole in the heel of one of the socks. Wiggles it.  
“ _Ja,_ but they are getting a bit old, darning can only do so much.”  
“They were knitted with love, I can tell.”  
He nods. “Mama Bertinis knitted them for me,” he pauses. “Now might be time for something new?”  
It’s not just the style of the clothes Scott ordered from a catalog for him, he explains, it’s the fabric; they’re mostly man-made fibres, even as he’s handling them, static sparks jump from Kurt’s hand. He looks up at me, sheepish for not being grateful. The shirts really are hideous against his blue fur.  
I explain my plan.

They call it a bag sale, twice a year the theatre costume shops of New York City have a clear out of old stock, you pay fifty dollars for an empty bag and get free rein of the sale rails to fill it with as much clothing as you can fit in it. Kurt is both thrilled and terrified but the lure of the magic word ‘theatre’ is just too strong.

New York, as Coleen has pointed out to me, is not rural Germany, with a wooly hat and winter coat, I don’t think anyone looks twice at Kurt, besides, strange is second nature to New York, even Queens.  
We park the car and join the excited huddle queuing in the alley behind the brick warehouse. They’re all shapes and sizes, mostly young, groups of giggling students, older single women or men. Lots of tattoos and ‘alternative’ clothes, at the head of the queue is a magnificent drag queen, slumming it, her glittering silver wig like an exotic, beautiful peacock amongst a flock of dowdy sparrows.  
Once they let us in, we are confronted with rows and rows of velvet, brocade and spandex. Kurt’s face lights up and we share a wicked grin.

We emerge three hours later with two bags stuffed with shirts, trousers, more shirts, cravats, bow ties. And the most ridiculously glorious wide brimmed felt hat, with moth eaten ostrich feathers. I think he likes that above all. 

We‘re still going to need some new stuff, I picked up a catalog of dance supplies at the costume warehouse; lots of practical black underpants and workout stuff like tights and tanks but they can be ordered. And his feet might be smaller than Peter’s, but they are so unique, we will have to custom order shoes too.

We lay the haul out on his bed. Five shirts, romantic, extravagant, with full sleeves and laces at the neck in linen and cotton, red, white and black (they really are his signature colours, not boring beige or bright bilious yellow) from a production of The Pirates of Penzance. They all have greasepaint stains, Kurt waves it away, he learned years ago how to get greasepaint out of collars. Tight black velvet pants, from an off-Broadway production of Pippin. A couple more pairs of high-waisted trousers, from heaven alone knows where, which show off those endless, muscular legs to perfection. Three beautiful, if slightly threadbare waistcoats, the brocade glows warmly, purple red and gold. A beautiful, pure silk smoking jacket and a frock coat, a good fifty years old, there’s a split seam, but he assures me he can repair it, and I believe him; he’s been altering his trousers to accommodate a tail since he was about six and old enough to handle a needle.  


None of it is dull, none of it is boring. All of it is Kurt.  
And he excitedly shows me the very faded name tag in the tatty felt hat. In very faint pen, you can just about make out the name, written by some unknown costume master or mistress, sixty, seventy years ago.  
It might be faded and moth-eaten but it’s still recognisable. E. Flynn.


	4. Moira - Sharps

I fill the syringe with inoculations, the full works, I’m taking no chances, measles, mumps, rubella, pertussis, hepatitis b and c, meningitis. They gets the polio sugar-lump at the end as a treat if they’re good.  
Ororo and Peter are done in seconds.  
Kurt, I have scheduled for some more bloodwork and some other tests; his mutations are far more than skin deep, far more than I anticipated. I’m going to have to set up a blood bank for him, for a start, whole blood, plasma, the works. I go cold at the thought of how lucky he is to simply have survived into adulthood. He’s telling me all about the _fantastic_ clothes he and Jean picked up in New York. His enthusiasm is contagious, he can’t believe that she went so out of her way to help him, how big New York is, how beautiful the clothes are. I hear all about which shows they were used in.   
The hat! I hear everything about the hat. “If you can confirm the providence, it might be valuable?” I offer, when he stops to draw breath.  
“I suppose...” he doesn’t sound convinced. “If it’s worth a lot of money, I should probably sell it, shouldn’t I?”  
I didn’t mean to deflate his enthusiasm. “Not if you don’t want to. I can’t imagine any collector would value it more than you do. And they would just lock the hat up in a glass case or a bank vault. That would be a shame, wouldn’t it?”  
He nods, smiles again. “A hat shout be worn.”  
“It certainly should.” 

I turn and approach him from the side, the light glints on the metal and glass syringe and needle and then everything seems to happen at once. His head shoots up, astonishingly, preternaturally fast and he knocks the syringe from my hand and I go flying backwards as he throws me into the wall. My head thunks against the bulkhead behind me and I see stars. He’s crouching over me, his fangs bared, bright, sharp white in his dark face, there’s no recognition in there, he’s terrifying and so strong. He pauses, crouched over me. His face changes, crumples. And he’s gone, in a rush of sulphurous smoke, leaving me lying there, shaking with fear and shock.  
Dear god, what just happened?

Ororo and Peter come rushing in, Peter simply pulls the door of his hinges, the wood splinters in his metal hands. They help me to my feet, sit me in a chair I can’t stop shaking. I brush away their concerns, where has he gone? What on earth caused him to attack me? 

The shattered syringe on the tilled floor. Oh.


	5. Wolverine - Pine Needles

I’m leaning against the balustrade outside the ballroom, enjoying a quiet stogie. What kinda joint has a frikin’ ballroom these days? It’s a beautiful night, the snow’s stopped, leaving it cold and crisp, the stars glitter, very little pollution but I can just taste it in the back of my throat, I prefer the county, despite the trees, we’re too close to the city. Still not sure that I belong, Summers an’ Chuck run the team like it’s an ‘effing kindergarten.  
A flash of purple light catches my eye on the edge of the woods, hm, what‘s the Misfit doing out here?

Chuck’s voice speaks in my head, an’ I hate this mind control stuff too.  
**Wolverine?** He sounds worried, wonder what’s goin’ down? **We need you.**  
He fills me in as I make my way onto that pristine white lawn, seems our Misfit attacked the lady doc.  
**Any idea why, Chuck?** I hear the mental sigh at my nickname for him and don’t bother to hide the smirk. **Sounds like PTSD.** I’ve seen a few like that. In my day they called it shell-shock. **Any history I should know about?** Kid seems friendly enough, annoying but harmless, but that ‘porting? not sure even my body’d survive bein’ teleported half into a tree. Don’t really wanna risk it.  
He doesn’t reply for a second or two. **When I found Kurt, he was being chased by a mob. There had been some child killings.**  
Crap, ya brought a kid killer in here? He clearly hears my train of thought.  
**I can assure you that Kurt was not the culprit.** He primly asserts, in a way that makes me think that he does know who killed those kids. **But you might be right, he might be traumatised by it.**  
Huh, so not a killer but he still might be dangerous. **Is the doc okay?**  
**She’s fine, mostly just shaken. I need you to find Kurt and bring him back. I can feel his mind, I don’t think he’s gone far. Do you want me to send... **  
**Nah, I’m better on my own.** My feet crunch in the snow. **I’ll find him for ‘ya.**

Damn cold out here, suppresses scents, but I’m damn good at what I do, an‘ he has a pretty unique smell. Plus I saw the flash of his ‘port, gives me a head start. I crouch in the snow on the far side of the lawn, on the tree line. Easy. 

Famous last words.

After a couple of yards, trail goes cold; he must have ‘ported again. I go still and start to feel the woods around me, Chuck’s estate is big, but not that big, and, like I said, I’m good at this.  
I head out under the pines, needles crunch under my feet.

After a few minutes, I pick up his trail, and find a blood spore.  
As far as I can tell, Misfit spends quite a lot of his time barefoot, those weird feet, don’t suppose he has much choice, so I’m guessing they’re pretty tough, but lots of rough terrain out here, he’s stood on summat. After a couple of bloody footprints, the trail goes cold again, but I don’t smell sulphur, I look up, he’s taken to the trees, he’s agile as a frikin’ cat.

Takes me the best part of thirty minutes, give him his due, guy’s pretty good at sneakin’ too. Just not as good as me.  
I find him in a clearing, deep in the woods, sat on a log. Hell, he’s only wearing a black tee and shorts, fur or no, he‘s gotta be freezing his nuts off. His head bowed, knees drawn up against his chest, he’s near invisible in the dark. Looks so frikin’ weird, I ain’t ever seen nothing like him, but he ain’t running a pity-party, he’s comfortable in his own skin, I guess you‘d have to be or you’d lose your marbles, waking up to that face every day. He looks like he belongs out here in the woods though, like some fairytale creature, strange and fey.  
I unzip my leather bike jacket, his head snaps up at the noise, he’d not heard me approaching. For a split second I think he’s going to ‘port away again, but then his shoulders droop. I hold out the jacket to him.  
“Put this on, ya‘ll freeze to death.”  
“ _Danke schön_.” He shrugs it on. I light another stogie and go sit on the log beside him. “Did I hurt her?”  
“Nah, Prof say’s she’s fine.”  
“I hit her. I scared her.” He sounds mortified, head bowed.  
“Ya certainly know how to make an impression on a broad.” I draw in a lung full of sweet smoke, keep my tone conversational “What spooked ya’?”  
He shivers, not with cold. He’s quiet for nearly a minute. I send out a mental yell to the Prof, let him know I’ve found his lost lamb.  
“The needle,” his voice is soft. “I forgot, forgot where I was. I hurt her. I wasn’t seeing her.”  
“Yeah. It gets ya like that sometimes.” I can feel his eyes on me. I don’t think he expected that answer. I think he thought I was gonna deck him. “I’ve lost days before now, I’ve hurt folks too. It’s bad stuff.”  
“ _Ja,_ “ he shivers again, it‘s brutally cold out here. “Bad stuff.” The words sound strange with his accent. He’s a nice guy, a kind guy. He sorted out the loft for ‘Ro. He helps with cooking. He’s good at the teamwork stuff. He smiles at everyone, even me, an’ I‘m a grumpy bastard at the best of times, ain’t his fault he looks like he does. He’s awful young to have had crap bad enough to make him react like that. 

The air above us stirs, a summer breeze, bringing her scent and Ororo drops out of the sky, like a beautiful black angel, her hair swirling with her cloak. Damn, ain’t that a pretty sight?  
“Kurt!” She envelopes him in an embrace before he can argue or ‘port away. “Oh, beloved, are you all right? You worried us!” The temperature around us rises by several degrees, fog rolls across the snow from the warm air. He lets her put her arms around him, she’s a force of nature, hard to resist.  
“ _Ja_ I am fine, but I hurt the _Ärztin_ , the lady doctor.”  
“It’s okay, you’re not in trouble, she’s alright.”  
“You are sure? You have seen her?” The anxiety in his voice is almost painful to hear, this is not a man who likes hurting people.  
“She sent me to get you.”  
Her astonishing, unnaturally tropical, winds raise them both into the air, she still has her arms around him in a sisterly manner. Almost as an afterthought, she glances down at me. I wave her away.  
“Go on, get him into the warm.“  
She nods and they rise up and away into the dark of the night sky. Damn, he’s still got my coat.  
I finish my smoke and work my way slowly back to the house, thinking of things I’d like to do to people with needles, who’d scare a young guy like that. I add them to my long list.


	6. Charles - Tacking

“I’m to blame Charles, the first rule of being a doctor might be ‘do no harm’ but ‘don’t scare your patient’ is also right up there.” She leans back in the chair opposite me, swirling the ice cube in her whiskey with a neatly manicured finger. “He wasn’t bothered by the blood tests, but he watched me do them, I explained what I was doing. When I had the hypo for the inoculations, I surprised him, I frightened him.”  
“Is he okay?”  
“Yeah, I let him go to his room, he was mostly just really, really cold. I don’t think that the med bay is a good place for him at the moment. Or being around me. No frostbite, thank god, the cut on his foot isn’t deep, I removed a pine needle but I’ve told him to keep off it for a day or two, let it heal.”  
“He’ll get over it.”  
She sips her drink. “Yes, yes he will, Charles, he’s a resilient young laddie. But I’m just sorry I added to his burden,“ she sighs. “Who did things to him? With needles?“  
I don’t answer her. I don’t know the answer and even if I find out, it’s private, it’s not my story to share.


	7. Wolverine - Warp and weft

I’m in the Smoke, doin’ some business of my own, that Chuck an‘ Slim don’t need to know about, when I come across a Japanese shop. I pick up some snacks, wasabi peas, Pocky, suff I ain’t gonna get locally out in the sticks.  
As I‘m on my way out the door I spot em’.  
I remember those cold, bare, footprints in the snow.

When I get back, there’s a light under his door, I don’t bother to knock. His head jerks up as I barge in, he’s readin’ a book, he always seems to be reading a book, when he ain’t bouncing around like a mad thing.  
“Hiya, Misfit.”  
“ _Herr_ Wolverine?” He gets up to greet me.  
“You okay?” I ain’t good at pep talks.  
“I am fine now,” he worries his lip. “Thank you for coming for me. I am sorry for the inconvenience.”  
“Hey, don‘t sweat it, bub, like I said, I’ve been there.” I toss the pack towards him, he fields it easily. Looks at it in confusion. “Ya need socks, figured these’d fit. Tabi socks, two toed.“ His dark face breaks into a huge grin. Yeah, that was worth it.

**Author's Note:**

> Poor, lovely Kurt. I am so mean to him.


End file.
